The Reaper

‘DC Morton, DC Bull, DC Gadd.’

‘Jane Gadd? Good officer,’ said Brook evenly, ignoring Noble’s quick glance. Jane Gadd was Noble’s girlfriend. Brook wasn’t supposed to know that–nobody was–but receding proximity to sexual relationships had sharpened his antennae in such things. More importantly she was young and hungry for promotion, as were DCs Dave Bull and Rob Morton. This was a big opportunity for them and he knew they’d toe the line and work hard.

‘Try the big supermarkets centrally. They’ll know if they stock it. When Aktar’s discharged get him and Wendy Jones to help. Send them round the off licences.’

WPC Wendy Jones was reading a magazine as Brook peered through a crack in the curtains. He hesitated. This could be difficult and Brook wasn’t sure how to play it. That was nothing new. He hadn’t been sure on any of the chance encounters since their little fling the previous New Year’s Eve had left them both with a severe case of embarrassment.

Nearly a year ago. Brook could scarcely believe it. The power of alcohol had a miraculous power to transform behaviour. Brook could scarcely tally the demure, black-stockinged professional before him now with the reckless passion of that night. The energy and the urgency of her lovemaking had left its mark on Brook, a casualty of a more repressed generation.

It had been the best sex he could remember–and he had a good memory–and had offered him a glimpse of a happiness he thought he could never experience after his divorce.

He hated to admit it, but the touch of young flesh had thrown open the stable door on emotions he hadn’t allowed free rein in a long, long time–lust, the poignancy of retreating youth, the urge to retrieve his wasted life. For the first time in years, Brook had experienced fleeting optimism. It was a very unhealthy period.

He coughed as he entered to allow her a few seconds to prepare. Her generous mouth dropped open briefly to reveal a glimpse of her perfect teeth. Her large dark eyes met his and she stood up. Brook was reminded of her long legs and stunning figure–what one of his poker-playing colleagues in the Met used to call a ‘Full House’.

‘Sir!’ she said her eyes almost level with his. She was only a couple of inches shorter than Brook’s six feet.

‘I didn’t know you were riding shotgun, Constable.’ Brook decided only at the last second not to call her Wendy.

‘Only while PC Aktar’s in here, sir.’ She fiddled with the grip restraining her long brown hair.

‘I’ve just seen him.’

Jones seemed very nervous and Brook was reminded of her acute awkwardness at waking up, not just with a senior colleague, but in his hovel of a flat. She’d scuttled back to her riverside development as quickly as she could. ‘How is he, sir?’

‘He’s feeling a little sorry for himself.’

‘I daren’t imagine what he saw to cause him to pass out like that.’

‘No. It was pretty bad,’ he added, deciding not to expand. ‘How’s this one?’ Brook enquired, nodding towards Jason Wallis who was unconscious.

‘The doctor says he’ll be fine–unfortunately.’

Brook gave her a quizzical smile.

‘Sorry, sir. But the little girl…I didn’t see her.’ She looked to the ground, suddenly embarrassed, as though she’d let down her sex by not forcing herself to see such a sight. ‘And this…lowlife gets away with a headache and even more celebrity. There’s no justice.’

‘Celebrity?’

‘Young Wallis, sir. After that hoo-hah a few weeks back. He assaulted a teacher in a lesson at Drayfin Community School. Threatened to rape her.’

Enlightenment creased Brook’s features. ‘That was Jason?’ He nodded with satisfaction. ‘Thanks for the reminder, Constable. Has anybody spoken to him?’

‘About last night? No sir. He’s not really been conscious. Why?’

‘So he hasn’t said anything?’

‘Not a dickey bird,’ she replied with an unexpected, if hesitant, smile which vanished before it had a chance to wrinkle the edge of her mouth. ‘Doesn’t he know?’

‘I don’t think so. Given the state he was in, I’m pretty sure he couldn’t have killed anyone and…’ Brook tailed off, unsure of the words.

‘Would you eat pizza if you’ve just found your family butchered?’ concluded Jones with a nod. ‘Do you need me to stay?’

She seemed very efficient all of a sudden. There was also the merest whisper of affection in her voice and a small seed of pleasure took root in the barren soil of Brook’s ego. He smiled, trying to imagine the question in a different context. ‘No, take a break, but keep yourself handy. Shouldn’t there be a social worker with him?’

‘She’s gone for a coffee, sir. She’ll be back in a minute.’ Brook nodded. She made to leave the cubicle then turned. ‘One thing. Jason’s under technical arrest, as a suspect…’ she hesitated.

‘Go on.’

‘We emptied his pockets. He’s got a hundred pounds on him. And a strip of tablets. Ecstasy, I think. Might be helpful.’

She left and Brook turned to young Jason. He stared at the childlike face for a moment trying to square his innocent expression with a threat to commit rape. He was just a kid. What had gone wrong with the world when little idiots like this felt they could threaten such violence?

Jason’s mouth lay open and a small stalactite of saliva was hanging from his bottom lip. Brook frowned and shook his head. How old was he? Fourteen? Fifteen, same as Terri? Just a kid. Oblivious. Snarling defences taking a time out. Without the posturing, without his warped sense of self, Jason Wallis was just another scared little baby, needy and lost and dribbling.

If he was lucky–or unlucky–Jason might live another sixty years and Brook knew he could map out his sorry life now. From birth to death it was a story he’d heard many times before.

Drugs, booze, fags, the search for cheap thrills, school’s boring, skip it, hanging out with friends, no qualifications, no future, hanging out with more friends, now petty criminals, stealing for fag money, destroying stuff, windows are good, milk bottles, bus shelters, phone booths, yeah I did it, what you gonna do about it?

He does what he likes. No-one to stop him. Jason and his friends aren’t nobodies no more–they’re big fish in a tiny puddle of piss. They’ve got power, the power to change things, not people, people can’t hear them, people walk by them, unless it’s dark, then they cross the road. Not people. Inanimate objects. They can’t run; they’ve got to listen; they can be changed by the power, from one state to another; the alchemy of destruction.

And sex? Plenty of that. Sex with a minor, still at school, willing to bury her despair under his. No need to take precautions, that’s the girl’s job. So what if she’s up the duff? Her problem. But wait. There’s a baby, that’s a nailed on income, your own place. Respect. Give it a whirl. I can walk away any time.

Shut the fucking brat up! I’m off out. Few beers. With my mates. Roll a couple of drunks. I’ve got to live, haven’t I? They’re insured.

I’m better off in pokey. I’ve learnt some good stuff. Get out. Get some dosh together. Go back in. Lesson learned. If only I’d listened in school, made more of myself. Too late now. Gotta tough it out. Can’t admit I’ve gone wrong. What’s wrong with driving a minicab? Life’s okay. We’re coping, waiting for those numbers. Doing fine. Kids have left. We’ll get by. Is this it? All there is.

Brook looked at his watch. He had a lot to do. He looked around to see if anybody was watching then cocked his leg back to kick the bed but then thought better of it.

But suddenly the patient snorted and began to stir. Brook looked through the gap in the curtain for the social worker but saw no sign.

‘What’s happening? Where am I?’ he croaked.

Brook went to the bed and looked down at him. ‘You’re in hospital, Jason.’

Jason sat up and blinked at his surroundings. He rubbed at the tube inserted in his forearm then looked up at Brook.

‘I’m thirsty,’ he said in that whining voice children use to ask for something without the bother of having to ask. Brook poured him some water from a jug and he drank it down in one, occasionally darting an eye at his impassive visitor. The wariness of the guilty conscience was the first defence mechanism to be revived. He thrust the glass back at Brook for a refill and drank again, more slowly this time.

Thinking time, thought Brook. Eventually Jason cracked.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘Detective Inspector Brook.’ The answer didn’t seem to surprise Jason.

‘Fuck do you want?’ he snarled. The routine fear of authority, accepted in Brook’s distant youth, was now a faded memory–a museum piece of a reaction. Today the obligatory response of youth was contempt. Contempt for those who couldn’t stop them doing exactly as they pleased. Parents, teachers, coppers.

‘I can’t talk to you without an adult present. The social worker…’

‘What you on about?’

‘I can’t talk to you without another adult present. Those are the rules, Jason. I’m sure you know the procedure by now.’

Jason leered at Brook. ‘Oh I get it. It’s that fuckin’ teacher been spreadin’ her lies again. I told you lot before, I never laid a finger on it. Get my dad in here.’

‘That would be difficult.’

‘You can’t interview me without an adult.’

‘I just told you that.’

‘Then stop hassling me.’

‘I’ve gotta say, Jason, you’ve got this whole performance down perfectly.’

‘Fuck off! And who the fuck are you?’ demanded Jason looking past Brook.

‘My name’s Carly Graham, Jason. I’m a social worker.’

Brook turned and smiled at her. ‘Detective Inspector Brook.’ She was young and slim with long brown hair, attractive in a pale, mousy kind of way. She wore a tight brown sweater and a brown corduroy skirt down to her calves, where fur-lined brown suede boots took over. Jason looked her up and down, thinking what to say next.

‘Inspector. You shouldn’t be interviewing Jason without at least one adult present. He’s under age and vulnerable.’

‘I keep fucking telling him,’ spat Jason.

‘No I keep telling you, Jason. I’m not interviewing him, Miss Graham. I just got here and Jason just woke up and I’ve told him repeatedly I can’t speak to him on his own.’

‘It’s against the rules,’ she continued, to establish her firm grip on procedure.

‘That could’ve been me talking, Miss Graham,’ replied Brook, a half-smile on his lips.

‘I don’t feel too good,’ wailed Jason, holding his recently pumped stomach.

‘Under the circumstances, I don’t think you should be taking things so lightly, Inspector.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ replied Brook, making no effort to take things more seriously.

‘What circumstances?’ moaned Jason.

‘It can wait until…’ began Carly Graham.

‘No it fucking can’t. I want to know why he’s here so keep your mouth shut, bitch, until I tell you to open it.’

Carly Graham glanced at Brook. She didn’t show a flicker of emotion. Like Brook, she’d probably seen Jason’s expression of scorn and hatred a thousand times. Finally she shrugged and waved her palm from Brook to her client.

‘I’m here about a murder, Jason,’ began Brook.

‘What’s that got to do with me?’ Jason sneered. This conversation had a well worn path and Brook wondered whether he could see it through. The Jasons of this world went out of their way to alienate. Unless they were spraying their scent over everything and everyone they weren’t happy and Brook, in his fatigue, was tempted to jettison the script and give it to him straight. He fought the urge and tried to find his most sympathetic tone.

‘We’ve got bad news,’ he said.

‘Oh yeah. What is it?’

Brook smiled at Carly Graham. This was her field.

She sighed and took up the baton. ‘Jason, I’m afraid your father and mother are dead, your sister Kylie too. I’m sorry for your loss.’

They both looked at Jason’s uncomprehending face. After a moment Jason’s face broke into a wide grin. ‘You lying bitch,’ he finally said. ‘That’s bollocks.’

‘Jason…’ began Brook.

‘What are you trying to pull, you lying bastards? What do you take me for?’

Brook removed a crime scene photograph of Jason’s father from his pocket and held it in front of his face. Jason’s eyes widened then squinted in confusion. He made to grab the photo but Brook returned it to his pocket.

‘They’re dead. They were murdered last night.’ A tear began to dampen the corner of Jason’s eye. The baby had returned. Brook wondered whether to be sorry for his loss but was unable to dredge up any sincerity.

Jason seemed unable to take it in. ‘Fuck off, will yer. You’re doing my head in.’

‘Their throats were cut. The baby was unharmed. I’ve got more pictures if you don’t believe me.’

‘Inspector!’ warned Carly Graham.

He’d gone too far but knew in his heart that the longer he dealt with this boy, the more he’d be glad he was able to affect him, to hurt him, to reach behind that curtain of aggression and find the heart of a child.

Jason’s features crumpled and, like all but the newest men, he tried to hide his tears. Brook was pleased with the reaction despite the gnaw of guilt on his conscience.

‘Me mum and dad?’ he quivered.

‘Yes.’

‘Kylie?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Yes you do.’

Now the tears began to fall. He sobbed for a minute, Carly Graham’s hand patting his, before getting control of his emotions. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ he sniffed.

Brook stared at the boy, then at Carly, trying to hide his disgust.

‘Don’t think about that now, Jason,’ cooed Carly. ‘Your aunt will be in to see you later. You should get some rest.’

‘And rest assured you’ll be fully protected.’

Carly Graham flashed Brook a warning look.

‘Protected?’ said Jason, almost to himself.

Brook wasn’t proud of his satisfaction at seeing Jason squirm but knew it was the best guarantee of cooperation. ‘If you’d been home a little earlier last night we wouldn’t be talking to you now. And it’s possible whoever did this may see you as unfinished business.’

Jason looked up, saucer-eyed. ‘Me?’

‘Inspector. What good is this doing? Can’t this wait?’

‘Not if we want to catch the murderer quickly. Particularly as Jason may have been the main target.’

‘What you talking about? This is so gay. Fuck off and leave me alone.’

‘I’m talking about you, Jason. You’re the celebrity in the family. There’s a chance whoever did this was after you.’

Jason began to sob again. A tear for his butchered father, a tear for his butchered mother, perhaps a couple for his torn sister and a bucketful for himself.

‘We need your help,’ continued Brook.

‘I don’t know nothing,’ he snorted, managing to resurrect a little aggression.

‘That’s a pity because the longer this man is free, the greater the danger to you.’ Brook’s reassuring smile had the desired effect.

‘You’re doin’ my head in. I don’t know nothing,’ he insisted.

‘So where were you last night?’

‘Hanging.’

‘Where?’

‘Around.’

‘Who with?’

‘Some mates.’

‘I want names.’

‘Fuck that. I’m no grass.’

‘Where did you get a hundred pounds?’

‘I won it on a horse,’ Jason sneered with the standard and-you-can’t-prove-otherwise leer.

‘Really Well as you’re too young to legally place a bet, that money will have to be confiscated.’

‘You can’t do that…’

‘And the Ecstasy?’

Jason’s triumphant manner subsided. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve planted that on me. I’ve been out cold. Anyone…’

‘Look,’ began Brook then paused for a deep breath to compose his thoughts, ‘I’m not interested in your…habits, Jason. If you want to pop a few pills to brighten your drab existence, who am I to care?’

Jason prepared to protest but was unsure how to go about it.

Carly Graham eyed Brook with concern. ‘Inspector, I don’t think…’

‘Under the circumstances, I can overlook possession. If you co-operate,’ said Brook, making an effort to keep to the script.

Jason withdrew his unformed objection and stared down at the bed, sullen but yielding. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Take me through what happened when you got home.’

Brook took a few notes although it wasn’t really his forte. Jason told him little that he didn’t already know so he didn’t have much to record. But he confirmed that his parents had ‘won’ a competition at the local Pizza Parlour and that he’d nearly stayed in. He had no idea what time he got home, though he had a feeling it was after closing time–he was self-absorbed enough not to worry about admitting he’d been in a pub. He’d got home starving and headed straight for the kitchen. He tucked into the first pizza to hand. And then…nothing. Until now. No, his parents didn’t drink wine and no, they didn’t listen to any of that classical bollocks.

‘But did you hear it when you got in?’

‘Don’t know, alright. I don’t remember.’ Jason lowered his head in despair at the thoughts and images crowding in. He sighed and looked up at Brook. ‘I don’t think I heard no music. Okay.’

‘Fair enough.’ Brook flipped his notes shut and stood up to go. Jason was leaving a lot out but it could wait.

Suddenly the patient seemed animated, as though Brook’s imminent departure left unfinished business. Then his face brightened. ‘What about the telly?’

‘Telly?’ asked Brook. ‘It’s still there.’

‘No, you know. An appeal for witnesses and stuff. They can interview me and I can ask people for help to catch the bastard. I can handle it.’

Brook stood motionless for a second, unable to think of a suitable response. He could see Carly Graham open-mouthed. ‘I bet you can,’ he said, and walked away.

Brook passed Jones at the coffee machine. ‘What happened about Jason’s clothes?’

‘Bagged up with his shoes and sent to Forensics, sir.’

‘Good. And you’ve booked in the money and the drugs?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Which means we’ve got Wallis on possession, possibly dealing. We’ll leave out suspicion of triple homicide.’

‘Sir?’

‘He’s a suspect, Constable. Possibly dangerous. Cuff him.’

‘The doctor said…’

‘Never mind the doctor. It’s procedure. Cuff him.’

Chapter Five

The press conference started promptly at four in the revamped media centre of D Division. Brook hadn’t been in there since McMaster had been promoted. He knew she’d refurbished the place but hadn’t realised how much. The last time he’d taken part in a press briefing, he’d sat at the end of a long table by the door, facing the window. The sun had slammed into his eyes throughout and he’d become bad-tempered and impatient with the stupidity of a local reporter, who took his dismay out on the Force in print the next day.

Being a consummate politician, Evelyn McMaster had spotted this handicap and had set about changing the layout of the room. The harsh colours were gone, the acoustics had been improved but, most significantly, the officers now doing the briefing sat with their backs to the windows and the journalists had any sun shining in their eyes.

The police had another advantage; the psychological benefit of a raised platform, boxed in to afford a view of head and upper torso only. They could now look down on the journalists literally, as well as metaphorically.

Brook sat stony-faced throughout McMaster’s briefing-by-numbers, allowing his eyes to wander round the room at all the unfamiliar faces. A chord had obviously been struck with the nation’s editors, because all the nationals were here, as were the BBC, ITV and other TV crews. The local media were all present, including Brian Burton from the Derby Telegraph, whose nose Brook had so firmly put out of joint a couple of years back. He was also the reporter who’d splashed important details of the Plummer rape case the year before, causing a great deal of damage to the prosecution, not to mention arousing suspicions between officers at the station about who’d provided him with key information.

McMaster drew to a close and invited DI Brook to add his own observations.

‘I can only reiterate the comments made by Chief Superintendent McMaster,’ Brook began. ‘From the brutal nature of these murders, we know this man is extremely dangerous. Any information, relating to his movements in Drayfin last night, or any other suspicious occurrences, that could help us catch this man, will be gratefully received. All such information will be treated in strict confidence and will be followed up, no matter how insignificant it may seem.’

‘What progress have you made so far, Inspector?’ ventured one reporter, squinting to counteract the glare from the setting sun.

‘Our enquiries are under way and no stone will be left unturned but at the moment we are awaiting the results of forensic and post mortem examinations. Until that information is available, it would be inappropriate for me to comment further.’

‘Have you found the weapon?’ asked an attractive young woman with a microphone.

‘Not yet.’

‘But you do know what type of weapon was used?’ she said.

‘As I say, it would be inappropriate to comment further at this time.’

‘Could somebody be shielding this man?’ asked a man with a BBC microphone.

‘It’s possible,’ Brook nodded, unsure of the relevance of the question.

‘You don’t seem too sure,’ jumped in Brian Burton.

‘I’m sure it’s possible, Brian.’ Brook winced from a warning tap on the ankle bone from McMaster–another benefit of the enclosed panelling

‘I’m sure that most normal people, Inspector, find it hard to imagine that anyone could knowingly shelter such a monster.’

‘Then you don’t know a great deal about people, Brian.’

‘And you do?’

‘One man’s monster is another man’s saint. The man we’re looking for kills without pity, quickly, efficiently and for what he considers valid reasons, even if we can’t understand or condone those reasons.’

‘You sound like you know him, Inspector Brook.’

‘It’s my job, Brian, to get inside this man’s head, to see what he sees, think what he thinks. It’s not pleasant but that’s the nature of offender profiling. And although our picture of this man is far from complete, we are able to extrapolate certain scenarios from the details of the crime. So in a sense, although I can’t go into detail, we know things about him…’

‘And when you’ve finished extrapolating scenarios, Inspector, are you able to tell the public at large whether this man has killed before and if he’s likely to kill again?’

Brook eyed Burton, barely masking his distaste.

McMaster, sensing the rise in temperature, stepped back into the fray. ‘Obviously this man is very dangerous, Brian. Certainly he could kill again which is why we need to catch him before he does.’

‘But is it likely he’s killed before?’ asked another reporter, spotting the omission.

‘There’s no possible way we can answer that until…’ Brook rejoined.

Burton interrupted. ‘So, Inspector, your profile contains no mention of the similarities between the murder of the Wallis family last night and the unsolved Reaper killings of the early nineties, in which investigation you played a leading part when you were stationed in London?’ The silence deafened Brook. He was vaguely aware of many faces looking at each other for assistance or clarification. ‘Well, Inspector?’

‘We’re not here to listen to wild speculation, Brian. Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen,’ McMaster said hurriedly, ‘and feel free to contact my office at any time.’ She stood, an amiable smile covering her face, and nudged Brook to leave.

‘Are you going to answer the question?’

‘We cannot give out specific details of last night’s murders until the appropriate time…’ began McMaster.